


Latin Lessons

by amns216



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fluff, Oral Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 09:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16678819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amns216/pseuds/amns216
Summary: An interlude of Latin lessons, spanking, orgasms, and Woodrow Wilson trivia. Original characters. Not much plot. Mostly sex. Yeah, this primarily is smut. And fun! And...educational?*Note: My Latin is, to put it generously, elementary. I apologize if there are annoying and/or amusing errors.





	Latin Lessons

She was snuggled into a corner of the large sofa, her legs tucked up beside her and a soft cashmere blanket draped across her lap. Her attention was on the book in front of her, and she was deaf to the faint sound of footsteps in the hall. When she heard his voice, she started, the book dropping to her knees and a smile touching her lips. 

“That looks like a good idea,” he said, walking toward her with an easy stride. “It’s been a long day, and I’ve been meaning to dig into my Woodrow Wilson biography.”

“You’re such a nerd,” she replied, her smile widening into a grin. “What number is Wilson?”

“Twenty-eight,” he said. “Your American presidents are, for the most part, interesting reads. At least, the first twenty-seven biographies have all had some high points.” 

He dropped down onto the sofa next to her and put an arm around her shoulders as she adjusted her position to lean against him. 

“Besides,” he continued. “You haven’t got any ground to stand on when you throw around terms like ‘nerd.’ Your resolution for the new year was to study Latin.”

“Well, some of that is your fault,” she said, poking him in the chest. “If you didn’t lord it over me all the time that your pedigreed, classical education gave you the most random knowledge—“

“Random? How is understanding the tongue that gave birth to so many languages still in use today—“

“Like the names of obscure plants,” she continued, ignoring his interruption. “Who refers to St. Patrick’s Day as the holiday of trifolium?”

“I hardly think that the common clover is an obscure plant,” he began.

“Or being able to answer all my questions about word origins—“

“Of which you have a surprisingly large number,” he murmured.

“I would just like to know that I can also master Latin. I mean, millions of Romans did it, plus at least a few of those people they subjugated.” She subsided, enjoying the warmth of his arm around her and the rough, homey texture of his wool sweater. 

“What are you reading?” he asked after a few minutes, his cheek resting against the top of her dark hair. 

“Mmmm,” she responded, tossing the blanket casually over the book she had been focused on. “Nothing good. Do you want to have a drink and tell me about your day?”

“Nothing good?” he repeated, and from the corner of her eye she saw his hand flip the blanket aside to reveal the book’s cover. He sat up suddenly, and she fell back against the couch. “This is my Woodrow Wilson biography!”

“Um,” she agreed. “You’re right—it’s not bad.”

“You lost my place!” he accused, flipping through the book with annoyed movements. 

“I’m sure you’ll remember. After all, you found it so gripping that I can’t believe you’d forget any passages.” She plucked the book from his fingers and set it down on the table next to her tea, then slid onto his lap, her legs straddling his hips. Before he could protest further about the book theft, she pressed her lips against his mouth and traced the line of his lips with her tongue. She smiled as he opened his lips in return and placed his hands on her hips firmly. Before she could deepen the kiss, however, she felt his hands move upward, her pullover sweater in his grasp. The air felt cool on her exposed skin despite the fire, and she started to reach for the blanket. 

“Not now,” he said, and tossed the cover to the floor. He proceeded to efficiently and quickly strip her of her bra, her jeans, and her panties, until she was lying across his lap naked and flushed. She lifted her head toward his, intending to continue kissing him and maybe free him of a few articles of clothing, as well, but he moved too fast for her, and in another few seconds, she was facedown across him, her hips just shy of his thighs. She squirmed a little over his trouser-clad legs, her nipples brushing against the soft material. Over her head, she heard the unmistakable sounds of a book being opened and she parted her lips to object. 

“Thank you for bringing this book downstairs, darling,” he said as his other hand came to rest on her bare bottom. “I think I’ll just read a bit now, and you should definitely practice your Latin.”

“Wh-what?” she said, startled by the feel of his long fingers stroking down the cleft of her rear to rest lightly on the rapidly dampening seam between her legs. 

“Your Latin,” he repeated calmly. Diabolically, she might say. “Conjugate for me the verb ardere.” 

“Now?” she asked faintly as his clever fingers slipped between her labia and lightly circled her clit. It was becoming difficult for her to concentrate on anything except the growing ache between her thighs. Her nipples began to feel tight and her breasts heavy. She writhed a little against the too-slight pressure of his fingers, and he immediately withdrew his touch. She whimpered. 

“Ardere.” 

“Ardeo,” she said and the light touch returned. He moved his fingers up and down, dipping into the well of her wetness and occasionally pinching her lips gently together. She desperately wanted him to give her more stimulation, but he was patient, and she knew better than to ask for more than he gave. 

“Good girl,” he said, and, to her disbelief, she heard the sound of a page turning. 

“Ardes…” she gasped as he spread her legs slightly and cupped her mound. She resisted the urge to grind into his palm and instead tried to force herself to think about Latin conjugation rules. “Ummm, ardemet?”

Apparently that was wrong, she thought as she felt his hand come down in a quick but sharp spank on her ass. 

“Try again,” he said, sounding as though he had all the time in the world. He kept his hand on her bottom, forcing the globes apart then lightly slapping them, moving down until the slaps sounded wetter and she couldn’t help pushing her hips toward his hand. That earned her another smarting spank. 

“Ardet,” she finally said, and was both frustrated and relieved when he returned to his alternating pets and pinches. 

“And?” he prompted. 

“Ardemus,” she said, her hands clenching against the edge of the couch cushion. 

“Keep your hands where they are,” he said, then added, “I had no idea Wilson only had two years of political experience before being elected president.”  
She groaned and he spanked her again. 

“If you can’t be bothered to master the language of the ancients, don’t you at least care about your own country?” he demanded, but she heard the smile in his voice.  
“Please,” she said, squirming again. 

“Two more plural in the active and you pass for tonight,” he said, and deliberately flicked her clit. 

“Ardetis!” she cried, her lips swollen and the moisture leaking from her parted thighs. “Ardent.”

“Good,” he praised her, and she heard a thump. She turned her head to see the Wilson biography lying on the floor. Then she felt his hard grasp around her wrists. “Now, since you enjoyed my book so much, tell me what year Woodrow Wilson was born.”

“Seriously?” she snapped, trying to pull her hands free. “You are such—“ She broke off as he toyed with the center of nerves between her legs, panting as he worked her into a sweat with knowing and deft fingers.

“Yes?” he asked.

“A nerd,” she said, her breath short.

“The last time I checked,” he said, his hand coming down in three hard strikes on her bottom, “That wasn’t a viable year at this time or any other.”

“1888,” she hazarded as he smoothed his hand over the sore part of her anatomy. 

“Wrong,” he said, and this time he spanked her directly between her legs. Pain and pleasure ricocheted around her body, and she tried to free her wrists again. “Give me the date and I’ll let you go,” he promised.

“1865,” she said, whimpering again as he returned to his maddening teasing. 

“Very close,” he said, his fingers never stopping. 

“1866,” she said desperately, needing him to grant her relief from the ache and heat in her lower body. 

“One more try. If you get it right, you’ll be rewarded. If not, you’ll reward me.” 

She gave a short moan, writhing in shameless need across his lap. 

“1861,” she tried. 

“No.” His voice was amused but implacable. Tears leaked from her eyes onto the leather of the couch as she realized he was going to leave her unfulfilled and so aroused she couldn’t think of anything but release. She felt his strong hands move down her body to grasp her waist, then she found herself on her knees before him. He opened his trousers and let his cock, straining at the fabric, spring free. Despite the fierce, driving need between her own thighs, she was pleased to see how aroused he was, and she took the hot, silky length in her mouth without prompting. 

He fisted his hands in her long hair, and she looked up to see his blue eyes darken with pleasure. He smiled down at her briefly and she sucked him harder, swirling her tongue around him and working to give him release. She put her frustrated energy into pleasing him, and his fingers tightened in her hair as he came close to the edge. Before she could send him over into orgasm, however, he pulled her up astride and fitted her to him. She was momentarily breathless at the sudden intrusion, but her muscles eagerly accommodated his length and she leaned against his chest, her body lost in the exquisite feel of invasion. 

She felt his fingers pluck at her nipples, then he began to move inside her, and she could only think of how to move with him. She was distantly aware of his hands coming around to grip her bottom, then his body went rigid and he fell back against the couch, his breathing harsh. 

After a minute, his hands came up to encircle her breasts, and she felt her nipples caught in a punishing pinch. 

“Didn’t finish, hmm?” he said lazily, his body sated and his smile edged with something that looked a lot like cruelty to her. She shook her head, her hips jerking forward involuntarily as his fingers tightened around her nipples again. Then he turned gentle, and soothed the small hurts, running his thumbs lightly over the hardened nipples again and again. 

He gave her breasts one last brush then lay her down on the sofa. He turned away for a few minutes and when he faced her again his pants were fastened and his appearance surprisingly neat. She, on the other hand, lay wantonly open across the cushions, his fluid on her thighs, her nipples high and tight, and a hot blush in her cheeks. She wanted terribly to bring herself relief, and knew he noticed the small tremble in her hands. 

She watched him closely, not sure if he would simply help her clean up and then leave her unsatisfied all night—certainly some of their nights followed that pattern—or if there was more in his mind this evening. 

After a pause, he sat down next to her prone form and ran his palms down the length of her body, stopping when he reached her ankles. Slowly, he pushed her legs back until her knees were bent and she was open to him. Then he leaned over her and gently used his tongue to tease her clit. She could only make inarticulate sounds of need, and her fingers clenched and unclenched uselessly against the sofa. 

He brought her to the brink of orgasm and then lifted his head, the blue eyes wicked. 

“It was 1856,” he said. “Don’t forget.”

She could only shake her head, her body arrested on the verge of ecstasy. 

“Will you forget?” he asked, then blew a stream of cool air over her throbbing and swollen clit. 

“No! No, please, please, please,” she sobbed.

“Say the date so I know you haven’t forgotten already,” he prompted, his mouth descending over her again. 

“1856!” she shrieked as she felt his tongue firmly stroke her bud of nerves. Then she only felt the explosion of release, running through her body, out through her fingers and down through her toes, her nipples tingling and her mind lost to everything but the moment. 

“Well,” he said several long minutes later, as her consciousness began to rise through the fog of pleasure to register that the author of her torment and bliss was speaking. “I think we’ve established which one of us is the nerd. What kind of woman orgasms while saying the year of Woodrow Wilson’s birth? I mean, you’d have to be a real nerd to get off on that.”

He propped his arm on the back of the couch and looked down at her with a slight smile. She sighed, too wrung out to take offense. 

“Contenta,” she offered eventually.


End file.
